London - Edward Rutherfurd [481]
But Lady St James, as she had become again in her own mind at that moment, could say nothing, except, “Oh, my God. It cannot . . . surely . . . oh, dear God.”
And Meredith was so flabbergasted that he scarcely realized that he had let go of the child who, seconds later, had vanished into the street, not to be seen again.
She would not speak. She would tell him nothing. Neither cajoling nor even, at last, a show of anger would get it from her.
“It was something about the boy, wasn’t it?” he demanded. “Shall I go and find him?”
“No! On no account,” she cried.
Whatever it was that had so shocked her, she would not speak of it. They drove to the recital in silence. Afterwards, she spoke of other things – the party the next day, their departure for the Continent – yet with a pale absence. Whatever the secret was that she had determined to keep locked inside her, he could see it was torturing her. Yet she still would not share it, even with him.
Until the dark and silent watches of the night.
Was it the suddenness of the shock? Was it the secret toll of the last three weeks’ events when she had so coolly diced with life and death? Was it, perhaps, that having at last secured love herself, her heart had begun to open, and soften? For it was not only horror and it was not only guilt that racked her body and tortured her mind in her sleep. It was the pain, the longing, the great, overpowering emotion of the mother that caused her, without knowing it, to cry out to her new husband, again and again in the early hours:
“The child. Oh, my God. My lost child.”
When she awoke, she found Meredith sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed. Gently but firmly he took her hand and asked her:
“What did you do with the child? Don’t deny it. You spoke in your sleep.”
“I gave it away,” she confessed. “But, oh, Jack, it was long ago. It is all over. There is nothing to be done now. Let us go away, today, and forget it.”
“Whose was it?”
She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does. Was it St James’s?”
She paused. Then at last nodded.
“The heir to the estate, then?”
“Our son. We shall have a son. He’ll have the estate. The other was . . . you saw for yourself.” She shuddered at the old memory. He was . . . his hands . . .”
But then Captain Jack Meredith knew what he must do to save his soul, and hers.
“I’ve killed the father. But I’m damned if I’ll disinherit the child,” he said quietly. “If you don’t take the child back, I will leave you.”
And she knew that he would.
“You may not find him, anyway,” she said at last.
It did not take him long. Though the Dogget boys had decided to avoid Hanover Square after the disaster of the day before, it was just after turning into Grosvenor Square that he caught sight of a blackened urchin with a sweep’s broom who, after one look at him, dropped the brush and began to run. The little fellow made off down Audley Street and dodged about, but Meredith was fit, and by Hay’s Mews he laid hold of him.
“Take me to your father,” he ordered, “or it’ll be the worse for you.”
So together they set off in the direction of Seven Dials.
They encountered the costermonger in Covent Garden, where the flower market was still in progress. He was standing by his barrow, with a cap on his head. As he often did when pushing the barrow, he wore a pair of leather gloves. His eyes just then had been resting on a rather pretty young girl selling at one of the stalls, but seeing Meredith and the boy advancing he turned without ceremony and enquired: “What’s up?”
“Your boy was stealing in a house yesterday,” the captain answered.
“Never,” the costermonger replied. “’E’d never do such a thing.”
“I think he would,” Meredith cheerfully countered. “But that isn’t why I’m here.”
“No, sir?” Dogget grinned. “You ain’t come for a fight I s’pose, ’ave you?”
“Not today. What I’d like to know is, how did you come to possess this boy? Was he born yours?”
“I dare say.” Dogget looked wary.
“Is that yes or no?”
“An’ ’oo for that matter, sir, might you be, an’ why are you askin’?”
“I’m Captain Meredith,